Three Months
by totaldramaturtletitan
Summary: In which three months is too long and hope is lost too young. Rated for major character death.


Three months was a long time, especially to a teenager. A quarter of a year—a lot could happen in that time, and a lot did. Somewhere along the line, they had grown up and improved in their fighting skills. They had adapted more to country life, and the stinging cut made by their departure had healed slightly. Life had continued, and so much had happened, but Leo didn't wake up.

Donatello had worked since they arrived, struggling to find a way to wake him up. He knew that even if Leo did wake up, he'd be weak, and would probably never be the same as he was before. The months went by, and he knew his medicine would never work. With this knowledge, he began to experiment with mutagen.

Everyone told him it was a bad idea, and he told them it was their only hope. He could tell they were still unsure, but when he mentioned that Leo might never wake up, their minds were set.

It didn't work. He wasn't upset—he felt he had become numb two months back. No, actually, not numb, that wasn't right. Rather, he was trapped in that moment where you were nearly numb and no matter how much you try to shake it off, it doesn't fade. At some point, you just accept it, and he did.

Despite this, it was the only idea he had left, and with it gone, he was at a loss. Unless Leo woke up, all the medicine he had made was useless anyway. He had no idea what the medicine he had given Leo through a homemade IV had done, if anything. It certainly hadn't woken him up.

He had called a meeting to give an update on Leo's recovery. Or rather, to say that there was no update to give. He was blunt—there was little chance of Leo waking up, and if he did, he wouldn't be able to handle day to day life. Medicine that would help either of these problems wasn't available, and he wouldn't be able to make one.

The looks on their faces made him want to pull the words back, say he was kidding and Leo would wake up any second. Gazes of horror, sorrow, and barely hidden blame flickered across the room, meeting his blank expression.

For a moment, there was silence, then Raphael stood. He shouted, pointing at Donatello, various accusations that floated in the younger's mind for a moment before vaporizing. Casey and Mikey pulled Raph to sit beside them, and after a few moments of heavy breaths, he nodded towards Donnie and mumbled a sorry.

Donnie nodded, the event already glazed over, but the general gist was clear. He had caused Leo's injury, and now he couldn't fix it. He couldn't deny this, and he knew that despite their silence, everyone was thinking the same thing. He wasn't upset.

It was Mikey who spoke up first, a quiet comment that would've been forgotten after a pang of regret rippled through minds. In this situation, it made Donnie glance in Mikey's direction. His brother's eyes were already boring into him, his expression nonexistent, and Donnie knew he was being serious.

Donnie tore his eyes away, waiting for the general consensus. After a few minutes, it was decided, and four sets of eyes turned towards Donnie. He knew why, and he wasn't upset.

Three days later, he was in the bathroom, staring at his oldest brother. He had always gotten along with him best. Their sensibility bonded them, and they hardly ever fought. In fact, their last fight was the only one he could remember.

The water was stagnant. It was too dangerous to remove Leo more than necessary, even if all they did was shift him over so they could run new water, so it was replaced as few times as possible.

He didn't say a word as he kneeled by the tub, laying his hands on his leader's plastron. The water's murky film broke as he pushed through, and there was no sound. The silence continued for a few minutes, until the bubbles stopped rising and he had pulled his hands back to his sides.

Donatello didn't move, wasn't sure he even could. He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at a blank spot on the wall. Later, he wouldn't remember who came in and pulled him away, nor would he remember the muttering that surrounded him as he was wrapped in a blanket, eyes just above the television. He wouldn't remember meals being forced into his hands, wouldn't remember eating, wouldn't remember their eyes boring into his like they had done only days before.

He would remember the exact moment every flicker of emotion in him faded. He would remember the way they told each other they didn't think he'd be so upset since he had agreed. He would remember them begging him to come back to reality. If they had said these things months before, he would've rolled his eyes before correcting them. This was reality, and they were stuck in a fake world were you actually had to feel things, the poor souls.

This was reality, and his brother was dead, and he wasn't upset.


End file.
